


Judgement

by faithlessone



Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [21]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26776462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: “For judgement this day, Inquisitor, I must present Captain Thom Rainier, formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall.”
Relationships: Blackwall/Josephine Montilyet, Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756030
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22





	Judgement

The night before the judgement, he can’t sleep at all. All he can do is lie as still as he can in the darkness, listening to Cassandra’s steady breathing. The sound usually soothes him, especially on nights when the bad dreams cling even when his eyes are open, but tonight…

He gives up, slipping from the bed.

Before, he would have lit some of the candles and read. Something light but absorbing, like elven mythology or that book on the Fifth Blight with Leliana’s comments and corrections scrawled in the margins. Which reminds him, he ought to get Lady Morrigan to take a look too. He can only imagine what sort of stories she might be able to tell.

(A pity that she and Leliana don’t seem to get on much at all.)

But reading would wake Cassandra, and that’s the last thing he wants. She deserves her rest more than anyone he knows.

Instead, he cracks open the door to the balcony, sneaking through it and pulling it quietly shut behind himself.

In front of him, the mountains stretch out into the black of the night. He dreads the dawn, and what it will bring, but for now, at least, the stars are still out. He leans against the balustrade, looking up at them, letting his mind drift. Anything but today. Their upcoming trip to the Emerald Graves, chess with Cullen, Lady Morrigan’s prospective comments on the Fifth Blight, training with Commander Helaine, Cassandra…

“You should have woken me.”

The lady in question trails her hand along the balustrade beside him, brushing over his fingers. He straightens almost automatically, drawing her into his arms. She rests her head against his shoulder, all sleep-warm and soft.

“Sorry,” he says, half into her hair. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“I understand. Today is the day.”

“Hmm.”

“He will thank you for it, when it’s over.”

It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, because he does. He believes that she believes her words to be true. He hopes they are. Still, it doesn’t sound very likely.

“Will _she_?”

She pulls back a little, looking into his eyes.

“We know this is a difficult situation, my love. Josephine most of all. It will take time. But she does not blame _you_. None of us saw him for what he was. None of us saw through his lies. Not her, not me, not even Leliana.”

“I should have…”

“It was _not_ part of your training, Brennan. Not like it was part of ours. You know that, yes?”

He nods reluctantly.

“He fooled us all. But… Perhaps the man we know is nothing more than a deceit, _but_ he did not have to take on the Warden’s name, or his duty. Once the true Blackwall was dead, Rainier could have disappeared into the wind, made a new life, never admitted the truth. Instead, he chose to honour him, to join the Inquisition and fight for us. Fight for _you_. Then he chose to reveal himself, and to submit to the punishment for his crimes, when he likely would not have been discovered otherwise.”

Logically, he knows everything she says is the truth, that she is not the first to say it either, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference in his mind. He nods again, absently, glancing away. There is a slight lightening of the sky to the east. Dawn is coming, likely to be clear and sunny, and just for a handful of moments, he considers calling on his storm magic to make the sky match his still dark and cloudy mood.

(He won’t. He still remembers, vividly, the lecture they had been given one evening in the Circle, about unnatural weather patterns and disrupting agriculture. But he _wants_ to.)

“Brennan, what do you need?” she asks softly, drawing his attention back.

What does he _need_?

The question isn’t one he’s used to hearing. Not the way he suspects she’s asking it. He has answered it a hundred, a thousand times on behalf of the Inquisition, or his allies, or his party. The answer rarely changes. Gold and supplies and support. More weapons for the soldiers, safe passage for the scouts, letters of introduction for the diplomats.

He asks the question more often than he hears it. The people he meets always need something. For him to take care of their problems. And he always tries. No matter what.

But now, looking into Cassandra’s eyes…

He doesn’t know how to ask for what he really needs from her. It may not be something he’s entitled to at all, let alone something she’s capable of or willing to give him.

She waits, patiently, watching.

“You,” he lands on, finally. “If that’s not too much trouble. I need _you_ , today. Not for… not for me. I need you to be there for Josephine. I’m sure Leliana won’t be far, but…”

He trails off, his voice fading out. She nods, her eyes a little uncertain, and he wonders if she can tell that that wasn’t what he was intending to ask for. But then she rests her head back against his shoulder, her arms solid and steady around him, and he can feel her strength suffusing him like a lyrium draught.

They remain there, on the balcony, until the sun rises.

*

“For judgement this day, Inquisitor, I must present Captain Thom Rainier, formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall.”

Josephine’s voice is sad and sombre, but achingly professional. He catches her eye as she moves towards his throne, and sees the tell-tale redness of old tears beneath her expertly applied makeup.

 _Maker_.

If he could take this away from her, he would.

Thankfully, Cassandra is standing near her, as calm and composed as ever. He exchanges a glance with her, taking courage from her strength. Hopefully Josephine can do the same.

The man in question is escorted toward the throne, head hung low. Chains rattle on his wrists and ankles: a precaution for the sake of appearances. None of them truly believe he’d be violent.

Brennan doesn’t know what to call him. Blackwall is the first thing that jumps to mind, but that’s not right. Thom Rainier still sounds wrong in his head, in his mouth.

A month ago, he considered… this man a paragon of honour. Not a regular member of his party, to be honest, his skills overlap with Cassandra’s too much for that, but certainly a valued member of his inner circle. The image of him in chains…

“His crimes…” Josephine’s voice breaks, just a little. “Well, you are aware of his crimes. The decision of what to do with him is yours.”

Another polite fiction, for the assembled crowd. Rather a larger crowd than he’s had for most of his judgements so far. Half of Skyhold seems to be packed into the Hall to witness this particular ruling, not to mention the Orlesians, half of whom have been baying for his blood.

He has spent hours upon hours over the last few days in the war room. Preparing for the assault on the Arbor Wilds, of course, but also… discussing this matter extensively. Every possible outcome. Not just with his council. He had had meetings with all of his companions, his entire inner circle. They had fought with the man, camped with him… It seemed only right that they all be involved in the decision of his fate.

Though he listened to Josephine most of all, of course.

Not because of her personal attachment to the man.

Well, not _just_ because of that.

This is a diplomatic incident. The way the man had admitted to the crime, confessed his guilt, in the middle of Val Royeaux in front of hundreds of screaming people; his continued declarations, insisting on his responsibility, his cowardice. If it hadn’t been for Josephine’s careful political machinations, and Brennan’s own presence, the Orlesians would likely have hung him before nightfall.

The man wanted them to, Brennan knows that much.

An easy escape.

One that had been denied to him.

The guards retreat, leaving him standing alone at the foot of the steps, his head still low. Though Brennan had questioned him thoroughly in the cell at Val Royeaux, when the man had been furious, and again when they returned to Skyhold, when he had been miserable, he did not expect him to come to the judgement so… resigned.

“I didn’t think this would be easy, but it’s harder than I thought,” he admits.

“Another thing to regret,” the man says, bitterly. Finally, he lifts his head. “What did you have to do to release me?”

Brennan doesn’t see the point of lying. It is hardly difficult to guess. “Josephine called in a few favours. There are enough people out there who owe the Inquisition.”

“And what happens to the reputation the Ambassador has so carefully cultivated? The world will learn how you’ve used your influence. They’ll know the _Inquisition_ is corrupt.”

Brennan can’t overlook the double meaning to his words, and he risks a glance at Josephine to see how she reacts. Her face is a perfect mask, expressionless, her body stiff and still. As predicted, Leliana is at her shoulder, her face similarly passive, but there is something dark and fiery lingering in her unblinking gaze. He catches Cassandra’s eye. She gives him a single nod, her shoulders squaring a little as she takes a half-step yet closer to Josephine’s other side. The ambassador’s expression doesn’t change, but he fancies that her posture is just a touch lighter. He gives her a flicker of a half-smile, and turns back to the prisoner.

“I wish there’d been another way, but my options were limited.”

“You could’ve left me there!”

So much _anger_ in his voice. So much pain. It almost makes him wonder if that would have been a better option. To give his friend… his former friend? No, his friend. To give him his autonomy. But he couldn’t do that to him, and he definitely couldn’t do it to Josephine.

“I accepted my punishment. I was ready for all this to end. Why would you stop it? What becomes of me now?”

The very question that had tormented them ever since the news had broken.

Executing him themselves had been ruled out almost immediately. Though it was the Orlesians’ desire, and apparently also his own, it hadn’t sat right with any of them. What he had done, especially to the men under his command, was abominable, that was not in question. But, as Cassandra had reminded him only that morning, his actions since – upholding the honour of the Wardens, serving the Inquisition, even stepping in and giving himself up when he didn’t have to, when no one would have known the truth… They had to count for something.

Denying the truth, and maintaining the lie that he was, in fact, Blackwall, had also been quickly ruled out. Though it did suit the Inquisition to appear to have a Grey Warden in their highest ranks, the truth would likely out soon enough, if it hadn’t already spread across the world, and it would certainly harm their reputation more than it would help.

Sending him to the Wardens straightaway had been a much-discussed suggestion. He had been intending to join the order when the real Blackwall died. It was a Warden’s identity that he had stolen, that he had lived under, fought under, all this time. It seemed only fair that they should be the ones to judge him.

Forcing him to serve the Inquisition, under his true name, had been suggested too. Conscription, of a sort. A suspended sentence. No longer part of Brennan’s inner circle, but as a common soldier under Cullen’s command. And when he had paid his dues, he would be allowed his freedom.

Immediately setting him free, to do as he pleased, had been yet another suggestion. It wasn’t hard to see that he truly regretted the actions that had caused this whole mess. That he had tried to atone for them, in his own way. Perhaps he had already served his time.

In the end though…

“Blackwall intended you join the Wardens. I will let them decide your fate. But only when Corypheus is dead. For now, Thom Rainier, the Inquisition needs you.”

Brennan doesn’t miss the way his gaze slips towards Josephine before he responds, or the way her eyes close when she feels his eyes upon her. That will take a little more time. Perhaps more than the Inquisition has left.

“As you command,” he says finally, looking back.

“Blackwall gave you the chance to atone through action, not merely punishment,” Brennan adds, though, again, more for the benefit of the assembled crowd than for the man in question. “I find I can do no less.”

“I am grateful for this, Inquisitor, and I will serve for as long as I can.”

There is something approaching relief in his tone. He bows, and turns as the guards move to unlock his shackles. The rattle of the chains is near deafening in the unnatural quiet of the hall.

Iron Bull steps up beside him as a whisper ripples through the crowd, Dennet on his other side; an honour guard. A few of the Chargers clear a path to the door. Protecting him from retribution, should Brennan’s ruling not be accepted.

Leliana deftly guides Josephine into her office before the chains are removed, Cassandra lingering by the closed door like a sentry. Brennan hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should follow, if he should check on her, but he catches Cassandra’s eye again, and she subtly shakes her head.

Instead, he calls an end to the judgement, and gets up from the throne, moving slowly. It might be impressive, all those gilded flames erupting from the back like he’s on Andraste’s pyre, but the stone seat is very unforgiving.

As he steps down, Cullen approaches, a firm hand squeezing his shoulder for the briefest moment.

“You did well,” he says, his voice a little rough.

Brennan nods back at him, unable to speak.

The crowd disperse slowly, half of them seeming confused or angered by his mercy, half of them grateful for it. He slips through the door to his quarters, heart pounding in his ears.

*

It takes a while for Cassandra to join him. She finds him out on the balcony again, looking over the mountains, but this time he doesn’t straighten as she approaches.

“You did well,” she says, and he smiles ruefully, a hollow chuckle escaping his lips. “What?”

“Cullen said the same thing. I didn’t believe him either.”

She pulls him away from the balustrade, hand on his cheek, forcing him to look her in the eye.

“You are allowed to be angry,” she tells him. “You are allowed to be hurt, to be sad. But do not be bitter. Rainier made his choices. What you did today, what you said, was not your choice alone. All of us bear the responsibility. Bull and his Chargers will keep an eye on him tonight, as agreed.”

The look in her eyes is unwavering, her conviction strong and true. He tries to take comfort from it, the way he had before.

“And Josephine?” he asks.

“She will recover. In time. This has shaken her, that is no secret, but she is strong. She will survive this. And, perhaps, better things will come of it.”

He nods, his gaze dropping. She strokes her thumb across his cheekbone.

“My name is Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast,” she says softly. “Only daughter of Lord Matthias and Lady Tigana Pentaghast. Sister of Anthony. Seventy-eighth in line to the throne of Nevarra. A Seeker of Truth. Called the Hero of Orlais. Formerly the Right Hand of the Divine. Currently a warrior for the Inquisition. Your protector and lover. These things you know, and they are the truth, I swear it.”

“I didn’t… I wasn’t…”

She presses her lips to his, short and chaste.

“I love you. This too, you know, and it is the truth. You are Brennan Alaric Trevelyan, second son of Bann Flynn and Lady Eve Trevelyan, brother to Maxwell, Evelyn, Niall and Tiernan. Former Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle of Magi. Herald of Andraste and Lord Inquisitor. These are all true things, are they not?”

He can’t help but smile at her. This morning, he hadn’t known how to ask for comfort, for reassurance. Hadn’t even really been able to recognise that that was what he needed. But she manages to give it to him without asking. Her strength suffuses him again.

“They are,” he tells her, tightening his arms around her and drawing her close. “You’ve never full-named me before. I wasn’t even sure you knew my middle name. I’m very impressed.”

She snorts. “Yours is nothing compared to mine.”

“Lady Cassandra Allegra Portia…” He starts strong but trails off quickly, unable to remember which comes next, and she smirks at him. “Something something, I don’t know. Maker, why are there so many?”

“My father was keen to honour as many of his relatives as possible. It is… not unusual in Nevarra. Especially in my family. Anthony had seven.”

“Telling you off as children must have taken your parents half an hour each.”

“We were rarely in trouble. Well, rarely caught.”

He grins back at her. “Oh, of course.”

She kisses him again, soft and warm.

“You do not have to doubt me.”

He shakes his head, brushing his nose against hers. “Never.”

“Are you ready to come inside?”

Half of him wants to. The other half of him can still barely breathe.

Her hands drop to his shoulders, squeezing once, and then, her brow furrowing a little, again. He frowns back at her.

“What is it?”

“Turn.”

She pushes lightly at his left arm until he obeys, releasing her and turning on the spot. He feels her fingers on his back, thumbs pressing into his shoulder blades. Now that she does it, he realises how tight his muscles are, how sore. He can’t remember how long they’ve been this way. Long enough for him to get used to it.

“Inside,” she commands, and this time he obeys without hesitation.

When they’re stood beside the bed, she makes quick work of the clasps on his formal tunic, and then strips him of both that and his undershirt. He reaches out for hers, and she bats his hands away softly, gently directing him to lie down.

“What are you…” he starts to ask, but she presses her thumb into his shoulder again, and his question breaks off in a pained groan.

“Lie still,” she tells him. “I must fetch something.”

He decides not to question her further, closing his eyes, dropping his head onto the pillow and following her instructions. Dimly, he hears her removing her armour, and rooting around in a trunk on the other side of the room. _Her_ trunk, he thinks, idly, and the thought makes him smile. He hasn’t yet been able to convince her to put anything in the drawers he had cleared out for her, and she seems reluctant to let him make room for her books on the bookcases, but she had agreed to keeping a small trunk of spare clothes and other necessities in his quarters. For emergencies.

When she returns, she climbs onto the bed, swinging her leg over him to straddle his thighs.

“Is this… acceptable?” she asks, sounding a little unsure of herself.

He keeps his eyes closed and makes an affirmative noise, half-muffled by the pillow. The scent of something spicy and sweet fills his nose, and then he feels Cassandra’s fingertips on his back, slick and warm.

“Tell me if I hurt you,” she tells him, her voice soft, and then she digs her fingers into his shoulders.

The pain is _exquisite_.

It takes everything in him not to tense up further. Though he’s had shoulder rubs in the past – in the Circle, where long hours of practising the same spell forms over and over again, followed by long hours of sitting in the library hunched over study books, occasionally necessitated in them swapping quick, fully-clothed massages in the dorms before lights out – it’s been years with just solitary hot baths and the odd spot of healing magic to relax him.

After a minute though, he starts to enjoy it. The way she manipulates his muscles until he feels like clay in her hands.

Her _hands_.

He has long loved her hands. Even before they were together, before he was allowed to touch her and hold her and kiss her… He has long loved her hands. So strong and capable. He remembers, vividly, the first time she let him spar with her, hand to hand. He’d rarely been so scared and yet so excited. The memory of the first time he kissed her hand is fuzzier, like a dream. He’d curse the ale he’d drank, but he’s fairly sure he wouldn’t have had the courage to do it sober. Thank the Maker he did, though, or they might never have ended up here.

Then she uses her thumbs to press something in his neck, and he can’t help letting out a moan of unqualified pleasure as something… _unlocks_ in his spine, his whole body melting under her touch, thoughts skittering away from him.

“Brennan?” she asks softly, hesitating, her hands retreating.

He’s almost boneless, but he reaches back blindly, and she captures his questing hand with her own.

“Did I hurt you?” she asks, nervous.

Actual words seem beyond his capabilities for the moment, but he pulls gently on her hand, and she climbs off of him, lying down along his side. With a little effort, he manages to wrap his arms around her, his head resting on her shoulder. She runs her fingers through his hair, the light pressure blissful on his scalp.

“Mage,” he mumbles eventually, clumsily pressing his lips against the skin bared by the collar of her undershirt.

“Hmm?”

Words are a bit of a problem.

“Magical. You.”

She scoffs lightly, continuing to stroke his head. “I should have done it earlier. I should have realised you were in pain. You should not have to suffer like that.”

“Wasn’t,” he protests.

She scoffs again.

“Not your fault,” he tries, forcing his eyes open as he looks up at her.

She doesn’t seem any more convinced by this, but her fingernails scratch against his head in the most dizzyingly pleasurable way, and he takes it as acceptance, even if it isn’t.

“That’s nice.”

Her chest rumbles a little with a stifled laugh as his eyes drift closed again.

“Love being close to you.”

“As do I.”

“Used to heal you just to be close. Before you let me do this.”

It’s not a confession he was intending to make, but he doesn’t regret it. Not now. Not with her.

“Sleep, my love,” she tells him.

He makes a disagreeing noise, burying his face in her shoulder.

“Sleep,” she tells him again.

And he does.

**Author's Note:**

> (Prize of eternal love if you can spot the Librarians reference, lol!)


End file.
